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Authors: Stephen Palmer
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Raïtasha led them towards him, lining them up, with Nuïy placed last. He went to stand beside the throne and picked up a pot and a wide brush.
The sitting man glanced to his side. “Tell them who I am, Leafmaster.”
“Twigs, you stand before the Third Cleric of the Green Man. This is Zehosaïtra. He will initiate you into the ways of the Green Man.”
Zehosaïtra looked at them, one by one. From the corner of his eye Nuïy saw the other five drop their gaze, but when Zehosaïtra looked at him he met the cleric’s gaze until, after some seconds, he saw Raïtasha move, which made him glance away. Had that movement been deliberate?
Zehosaïtra said, “Well, twigs, this is yer last chance to turn aside. Are there any here who would not become leaves of the Green Man?”
Silence.
“Very well.” Zehosaïtra stood up and plucked a handful of twigs from the throne. He walked up to the first of the line, the tall youth, and asked him his name, which was Mehmatha. From the twigs he pulled four leaves. Raïtasha moved to his side and dipped the brush into the pot, to fill it with a sticky black fluid, against which Zehosaïtra dabbed the leaves. He stuck one each on Mehmatha’s hands and bare shins. This he did to the remaining five, during which Nuïy learned the missing names of the youths, which were Baïcoora and Awanshyva. Then Zehosaïtra returned to sit at his throne.
“Repeat after me,” he said, looking at all of them. “Green is great, green is great.”
Hesitantly they intoned, “Green is great, green is great,” in a poor semblance of order that frustrated Nuïy. Almost he asked Zehosaïtra if they could speak it again, all in time, but he held himself in check.
Zehosaïtra continued, “Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”
“Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”
Zehosaïtra turned to the north, then said, “Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”
“Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”
And finally, “The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”
“The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”
Zehosaïtra nodded. “Good. Now there are two more things to complete the ceremony.” From his pockets he pulled six yellow hats in the shape of a cake tin, which he gave to them. “These hats symbolise the sun on yer heads. The sun shines upon the Green Man and makes him strong. You may personalise these. Do not lose them. They are to be worn on special occasions.”
“Thank the Third Cleric,” Raïtasha said.
They mumbled their thanks.
Zehosaïtra said, “The sun is good, but the moon is evil. Scorn the moon.”
Raïtasha again filled his brush with black fluid, while Zehosaïtra said, “You must be bearded in the sight of the Green Man. Until you grow proper beards, we will help you. Raïtasha?”
Raïtasha stood before Mehmatha and painted a beard and moustache on his face, which dripped upon his robe. “Yer robe is soiled,” Raïtasha re- marked. “Wash it later.”
Eventually Raïtasha painted a beard and moustache on Nuïy’s face, slopping the sticky fluid about. Nuïy suppressed a sneeze. The stuff was like runny creosote.
Zehosaïtra sat on his throne as Raïtasha led them out. Nuïy glanced back. Those round eyes stared at him.
He skipped to the front of the group as they returned to the dormitory, to walk at Raïtasha’s side. “But that was only the Third Cleric,” he said. “Where were the superior two?”
“You’re only little green leaves just out of the bud. The top two have more important things to do than initiate the likes of you.”
“What are their names?”
Raïtasha frowned up at Nuïy. “Why do you want to know, eh?”
“I must have all the facts.”
Raïtasha clicked his tongue in annoyance. “The Second Cleric is Gaddaqueva. The First Cleric is Sargyshyva.”
Nuïy was about to ask what they looked like, when he tripped and almost fell flat on
Raïtasha led them towards him, lining them up, with Nuïy placed last. He went to stand beside the throne and picked up a pot and a wide brush.
The sitting man glanced to his side. “Tell them who I am, Leafmaster.”
“Twigs, you stand before the Third Cleric of the Green Man. This is Zehosaïtra. He will initiate you into the ways of the Green Man.”
Zehosaïtra looked at them, one by one. From the corner of his eye Nuïy saw the other five drop their gaze, but when Zehosaïtra looked at him he met the cleric’s gaze until, after some seconds, he saw Raïtasha move, which made him glance away. Had that movement been deliberate?
Zehosaïtra said, “Well, twigs, this is yer last chance to turn aside. Are there any here who would not become leaves of the Green Man?”
Silence.
“Very well.” Zehosaïtra stood up and plucked a handful of twigs from the throne. He walked up to the first of the line, the tall youth, and asked him his name, which was Mehmatha. From the twigs he pulled four leaves. Raïtasha moved to his side and dipped the brush into the pot, to fill it with a sticky black fluid, against which Zehosaïtra dabbed the leaves. He stuck one each on Mehmatha’s hands and bare shins. This he did to the remaining five, during which Nuïy learned the missing names of the youths, which were Baïcoora and Awanshyva. Then Zehosaïtra returned to sit at his throne.
“Repeat after me,” he said, looking at all of them. “Green is great, green is great.”
Hesitantly they intoned, “Green is great, green is great,” in a poor semblance of order that frustrated Nuïy. Almost he asked Zehosaïtra if they could speak it again, all in time, but he held himself in check.
Zehosaïtra continued, “Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”
“Twig to leaf, leaf to branch, branch to humus.”
Zehosaïtra turned to the north, then said, “Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”
“Stamp out the flowers, stamp on the flowers.”
And finally, “The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”
“The Green Man is the tree, and we will turn to humus at his roots.”
Zehosaïtra nodded. “Good. Now there are two more things to complete the ceremony.” From his pockets he pulled six yellow hats in the shape of a cake tin, which he gave to them. “These hats symbolise the sun on yer heads. The sun shines upon the Green Man and makes him strong. You may personalise these. Do not lose them. They are to be worn on special occasions.”
“Thank the Third Cleric,” Raïtasha said.
They mumbled their thanks.
Zehosaïtra said, “The sun is good, but the moon is evil. Scorn the moon.”
Raïtasha again filled his brush with black fluid, while Zehosaïtra said, “You must be bearded in the sight of the Green Man. Until you grow proper beards, we will help you. Raïtasha?”
Raïtasha stood before Mehmatha and painted a beard and moustache on his face, which dripped upon his robe. “Yer robe is soiled,” Raïtasha re- marked. “Wash it later.”
Eventually Raïtasha painted a beard and moustache on Nuïy’s face, slopping the sticky fluid about. Nuïy suppressed a sneeze. The stuff was like runny creosote.
Zehosaïtra sat on his throne as Raïtasha led them out. Nuïy glanced back. Those round eyes stared at him.
He skipped to the front of the group as they returned to the dormitory, to walk at Raïtasha’s side. “But that was only the Third Cleric,” he said. “Where were the superior two?”
“You’re only little green leaves just out of the bud. The top two have more important things to do than initiate the likes of you.”
“What are their names?”
Raïtasha frowned up at Nuïy. “Why do you want to know, eh?”
“I must have all the facts.”
Raïtasha clicked his tongue in annoyance. “The Second Cleric is Gaddaqueva. The First Cleric is Sargyshyva.”
Nuïy was about to ask what they looked like, when he tripped and almost fell flat on
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